Look at Me
by Mysstik Quill
Summary: A story of rebuilding, overt closeness, and wanting to end your life. Sherlocks' been gone for two years and now that he's back John can't look him in the eye and he has a sneaking suspicion that Sherlock can't look in his either. As they try to mend back their relationship to what it was something new may be added on.
1. Chapter 1

I do not own Sherlock or anything associated with it besides the ideas in this fic. Please enjoy!

* * *

They can't really look each other in the eye. Or at least John couldn't look at Sherlock. It's been a week since he's been back -miraculously- from the dead. John had been spitting mad when Sherlock popped round in that restaurant like he'd never been gone. But, he had also been so intensely and blindingly relieved; Sherlock Holmes had raised himself from the dead and maybe everything was going to be alright.

Except it wasn't. Something was broken between them and John didn't even begin to know how to mend it. Actually, maybe, he did and he had a feeling Sherlock did too, but he'd be damned if he was going to bring that up of his own free will.

Now, he was looking -not for the first time- at Sherlock's chin, unable to meet his eyes. "I asked you to stop being dead," he spoke softly. He was vaguely surprised at the amount of effort it took to keep the tremble out of his voice. He shifted the grip on the cane, the one he hadn't had to carry not long after meeting Sherlock and he supposes that's where Sherlock's gaze was now. Analyzing John's dependence on the once obsolete object.

"I know." His voice, at least on the surface, seemed to be devoid of any emotion. But John senses an underlying tremble. John sees his Adam's apple bob as a pregnant pause stretches before them.

"…I have to go now. Mary. She's waiting for me," John's transferred his gaze to the wall behind Sherlock and manages to catch Sherlock's fist forming a tight ball before he utters a quiet 'of course'.

Sherlock texts him about a case and he almost doesn't go. He doesn't want the help the man who had faked his death for two years. Who put John through hell and a series of 3 therapists. But Mary, bless her, somehow convinces him to go and John can't shake the feeling that she's going to regret thrusting him back into Sherlock Holmes' orbit.

It's a whole disappearing train debacle and John is angry with Sherlock more times than he's not. Sherlock does his thing and saves the day. With his turned up collar and his mouth twitched up in that smirk of his, John can't help the feeling of warmth that spreads throughout him. In this moment, as he's telling Lestrade how incompetent he is and how it really wasn't all that difficult, was the most relaxed and unguarded that he's seen him. Sherlock was always somewhat tense around John in the rare instances they've met since he's been back. And John does suppose that has to do with guilt of leaving him behind. But, right now they're Sherlock and John, so John doesn't stop the smile from creeping to his face.

John goes back home with Sherlock, not bothering to tell Mary about the change in plans. He and Sherlock walk into 221B with rings of 'hello!' and 'oh John your back!" from Mrs. Hudson. They answer back and Sherlock waves away her offering of tea as they trudge up the stairs.

Sherlock beelines for the couch and for a second John's just stood there, unsure of what to do. So, he does was he always does and heads straight for the kitchen.

"You want a cuppa?" he calls from the kitchen. He was sure Sherlock rejected Mrs. Hudson because he didn't want to be bothered with her prattle, not because he didn't want any tea. His suspicions proved true when Sherlock leaped from the couch in one fluid motion with a resounding "Yes! If you would!"

As John watches for a moment Sherlock wander over to the fireplace with his fingers taping restless against his thighs, he noticed something was missing.

"Hey, what happened to my chair?" he asked, facing Sherlock directly now. Still his eyes were kept carefully trained at Sherlocks chin. He still couldn't look, not yet, not after everything.

Sherlock was wringing his hands together and he hadn't turned to face John. He was continuing to stare intently at something on the fire place. "It was blocking my view to the kitchen."

"Glad you missed me so much," John huffed and turned to finish making the tea.

"You're welcome to sit in my chair," he said as if it was of no matter to him. Turning back a plopping himself back onto the couch.

"Hmm." John rooted around the cupboards and fridge finding them devoid of anything edible. "You haven't got any food in here Sherlock! When's the last time you've eaten?" John knows it a useless question as soon as he asks it, he and Sherlock have been on a case. Sherlock doesn't eat on cases.

"Hmm." He parroted back at John. "I've eaten. Mrs. Hudson has left a few biscuits around."

John sighed leave it to Sherlock to not eat, but really what did he expect. Sherlock is impossible and Mrs. Hudson can only do so much. He straightens out his back, hands on hips deigns himself with feeding this ridiculous man, "So, shall we order a takeaway?"

* * *

My first Sherlock story, pleas review. Thank you.


	2. Chapter 2

If John was a better man, a stronger man, he wouldn't let himself get swept up in the hurricane that is Sherlock Holmes. He should know better, he had two horrible years to remind himself what being in the man's orbit meant. But damn him if he didn't fall right back beside him, encompassed in phenomenon that was his consulting detective.

After that first case, John had been beside him at every one after. His cane, after that very first case back, had been a non-factor. And John knew Sherlock had been deducing that, if the firm set of his lips and his long fingers steepled beneath is chin were anything to go by. John supposes that he's been inferring a number of things about him since John's been back as a daily presence in 221B. And John had been wondering things about Sherlock too.

* * *

A new addition of their tentatively rebuilding relationship is that they can't very well seem to let each other out of sight. Though still not meeting each other's eyes, and John was now certain that Sherlock wasn't trying to meet his either—his chin was angled wrong and his head was tilted in quite not the right direction, they had to be in each other's space or ear shot constantly. Like now, Sherlock's in the kitchen fiddling with some experiment while John is sat in his chair-which popped back up sometime last week- reading, which meant his back would have been turned to Sherlock. But, as soon as Sherlock meandered his way to kitchen, John's body and eyes tracked his. Sherlock stood up and John sat straighter, his eye coming to rest somewhere on Sherlocks right shoulder. As Sherlock took the few steps it took him to get to the kitchen, John angled body his more and more so that his chest was lain against the arm of the chair, his book dangling in the air in front of him. And Sherlock, who normally performed his experiments stood at the right side of the table, shifted everything over to the left. So, now he could see John's head peeked out from over the side of the chair.

It was like this with everything. Them shifting to accommodate the position of the other, the almost deliberate creation of unnecessary noise to broadcast their location in the house. If John had bothered to go back to seeing his therapist she'd tell him that this was an unhealthy amount of codependence they were displaying.

* * *

John had a sickly feeling whenever he couldn't see Sherlock from his peripheral vision or hear Sherlock in the next room.

One morning, after another night spent at Baker Street, John came down the stairs to silence. He didn't really think much of it, sure Sherlock had taken to playing his violin in the mornings to signal John that he was there, but, that wasn't every morning. Some mornings he was sat there on his chair or splayed out with his too large body hanging off the couch.

That wasn't the case this morning though, when John cleared the last step Sherlock was nowhere in sight. Panic gripped his heart in a white-hot flash. He moved quickly to the kitchen only to be met with a similar view from the living room. His breath caught in his throat as he spun round to check Sherlock's room. He didn't even bother with knocking, just wrenched Sherlock's door open and stepped inside.

John considers, in hindsight, this is worst thing he could have done. He had not been in Sherlocks' room since the fall. The room was impeccable, neat, not a single item out of place. Cold. Sherlock's room was cold like it had been in those days so long ago. And for reasons he couldn't explain something in him broke, he couldn't find Sherlock, he was gone again, he'd left John again. John slid down the wall, his back against Sherlocks dresser knees bent up to his chest and his breath coming out in hot wet spurts. John, of course, can recognize a panic attack from his many sessions of therapy, but for the life of him can't seem to do anything about it. His head is spinning and he breath is coming in ragged, he's sweating and he's on the verge of tears and Sherlock's gone!

The house is empty and Sherlock's gone. John's left alone and Sherlock's gone. He could be dead again and Sher—

" _John!_ " Sherlock's voice shocks John out of his disturbing mantra of 'Sherlock's gone'. "John. John? I'm here, I'm right here." He shifts closer now, crouched right in front of John, his long fingers curled around each of John's knees.

"Sherlock?" his voice comes out broken and breathy. His wide-open eyes are trained on the bridge of Sherlocks' nose and John can see the tips of his long black eyelashes from his eyes being splayed so largely. "I thought—" he couldn't finish the sentence and surely Sherlock knew what he thought.

Sherlock's large hands tightened on knees, squeezing them until it almost hurt. "I know." His head suddenly dropped and he leaned forward. Forcing John's legs apart as he sagged between them. "I was— I got a text from Molly about a body," he murmured as he rested on the side of the dresser to John's left. "I thought I'd be back before…".

John let out a deep sigh, leaning the back of his head on the dresser alongside Sherlock's. He wasn't gone, he just hand Sherlock style errands to run. He didn't leave John, he wasn't dead. John didn't have to go to that place again. Because he was sure that if history repeated itself he couldn't endure it.

They had never been this close before, John thinks distantly as he slips his eyes closed. Sherlock wasn't really pressed against him, he used his hold on John's knees to keep their bodies from mashing into one another.

As john managed to let some rational thought in his brain, he supposed Sherlock was doing this to show John that he was here and he wasn't going to leave. There was an apology in the hands that clutched his knees and a reassurance in the breath that brushed his ear.

John didn't say anything for a long moment, just fisted his hands in Sherlocks' comfortingly obnoxious purple shirt.


	3. Chapter 3

John leans back in his desk chair and heaves out great sigh. He thinks about Mary and how he's only been back to her place a handful of times since he and Sherlock were back to being a 'dynamic duo'. He knows it's not fair to her and knows that only a few weeks ago he was going to propose to her. And he loves her, he does. It's just the age-old problem of trying to balance out his life with Sherlock with his life with someone else.

Speaking of Sherlock, he has been texting almost non-stop since he left for work this morning. All nonsense really, just a stream of consciousness that lets him know that Sherlock is fine and still there. For his part John responds when he can, because he's sure that Sherlock can feel that gap between them just as intensely as John can, though he does better at hiding it. But John knows Sherlock, or likes to think he does and he doesn't miss the way Sherlock's jaw tenses whenever he makes to leave a room, or the way his hands become a little too restless when the silence stretches too long between them.

He's responding to Sherlocks texts with a 'please stop sending me pictures of decaying eyeballs' when there's a knock on his door. He doesn't know who he was expecting but he certainly wasn't expecting Mary.

"Hello John," she says somehow in a mix between brash and gentle. She moves deeper into the room, leaving the door open behind her. "It's almost time for your lunch break, right? Want to go somewhere?"

And John's saying yes before he even has a moment to think about it. And really, he shouldn't have to, he loves her, she's his girlfriend, and he can go out to get lunch with his girlfriend without thinking of all the places he'd rather be. So, John grabs his coat and they make their way out of the surgery. They walk in what John believes is an amicable silence but knowing Mary it could be anything but. Truly, she has every right to be upset with John, he did sort of abandon her to her own devices for over the better part of a week.

They pick a place with outdoor seating and though John feels his pocket vibrate he doesn't dare check it. Not with Mary smiling her smile at him, he still can't tell its inviting or a warning but he won't take his chances. Now, if it was Sherlock's smile he'd know exactly how to proceed, if it was a smirk he'd tease him, a closed mouth smile he'd dismiss him and carry on, a full smile and he'd smile right on back and agree with whatever Sherlock had been saying.

Mary sits down across from John and her smile drops a bit as they both hear his phone vibrate against the metal chairs. "Who would have thought I'd have to ambush you at your job for you to spend time with me," she has a sort of contemplating look on her face.

He makes to open his mouth, to apologize or to defend himself he doesn't know; but she barrels on through. "I suppose you and Sherlock have made amends." She doesn't phrase it like a question and she's stopped looking at him in favor of browsing through the menu. "Honestly, I am not all that surprised. From what you've told me of your past relationships, its' seemed likely this would happen."

"Mary, I'm sorry— "John tries to start but he is bowled over once again.

She's pointing the menu at him now looking him hard in the eyes, "But, don't you think for a single second John Watson that you're going to get rid of me that easily!"

And John thinks that this why he loves Mary, her brashness and her no-nonsense attitude. She was there to fix him when he was broken, she helped pick up the pieces that fell away when Sherlock left. She made John stop going to the motions and actively participate in his own life again. He would think, that if not for hard edge he sometimes caught in her demeanor she'd remind him of Sherlock.

But, there's something he can't quite place. Something deep down in the core of his being that is preventing him from loving her like he used to. "Of course, Mary, I'm sorry," he says, looking into her eyes. He could do it with her, had been doing it since everything. It didn't make his heart lurch to try and look Mary in the eyes as it did with Sherlock. In fact, he could look everyone in the eye, everyone except Sherlock.

"Good," she says smiling. This time her lips don't fall as his phone vibrates once, twice, three more times in his pocket.

He should answer it he knows, but he supposes he could spare Mary a few Sherlock-less moments. No matter how he was aching to talk to him.

* * *

He was wrong. As their halfway through their lunch, he spots a curly mop of black hair quickly making its way over to them. And John is standing, holding his arm up to signal his position before he can stop himself. Mary follows his sight line her smile dips low again before returning to its original place.

Sherlock shoulders his way past the small crowd and maneuvers himself through the sea of tables until he's standing directly in front of John. "You weren't answering your phone," he says in lieu of an actual greeting. His mouth is set in a hard line and his right hand playing with his phone in his pocket.

"Sorry," John's words tumble out of his mouth like he couldn't get them out fast enough. "Sorry, I was…" he sweeps his hand in a gesture to the table and Mary, who had now stood and was staring critiquingly at Sherlock.

As if Sherlock just now realized she was there, her turned towards her. Looking down at her and Mary staring right back up at him. He makes a sound in his throat, the one he makes when he's deemed someone unworthy of his words. Mary parrots the same greeting back at him.

"I'm Mary Morstan," she extends her hand out for a shake and Sherlock does so without hesitating. "John and I were just getting lunch, join us would you? I'd love to talk to the infamous Sherlock Holmes."

"No," he shakes his head turning back to John. "A text from Lestrade, I've come to collect you." He's looking at John or past John, he can't really tell and considers asking Mary about it later before he quickly dismissing the idea.

"Yeah, okay." And he's picking up his coat and running off behind Sherlock before Mary can get in a word in edgewise.

* * *

If they stand too close together at the crime scene no one mentions it. Though, John does see Lestrade give them an odd as Sherlock places a hand on John's lower back when he crouches to inspect the body. And if he's really paying attention he'd notice Donovan huff in disbelief when Sherlock stops ranting and raving about the uselessness of the Yard at John's touch.

But, really, it's not weird to John and probably not to Sherlock either. It's reaffirmation, a reassurance, a safe guard against the against the anxiety that attacks both of them at the least opportune moments. Like when they're chasing down a criminal and John doesn't think before splitting off from Sherlock and to be fair John _had_ caught the man and had only been out of Sherlocks' view for less than 10 minutes.

But none of that mattered to Sherlock, when he'd turned the last corner and caught up to John he was, in John's opinion, quite upset. Bypassing the criminal immediately, which Sherlock never does because the likes to gloat in their faces like the drama queen he is, and grabs John's chin in his hands.

"What's this?" he asks gruffly. His thumb swiping over the cut on John's bottom lip. John twisted his head from Sherlocks' grip and runs his tongue over the cut he hadn't realized was there. He supposes he must have gotten it when he wrestled the culprit to the ground.

"It's a spilt lip, Sherlock. People get them."

Sherlock's mouth moves from a frown into a hard, thin line. "I think you're taking undue risks. Injuring yourself uncaringly. Last week you nearly got shot," his voice shoots out low and sharp, like he's accusing John of something.

"Injuring myself—shot? I was protecting a _child_ , Sherlock." John doesn't have any idea where this is coming from, Sherlock never had any problems the all minor wounds John sustained before. He was being ridiculous, if any one was taking undue risks it was Sherlock. Always bounding off head, stepping straight into danger with John continuously behind him.

And now Sherlock's not looking at him, his hands are once again anxiously tapping against his thighs and John cannot figure out why this bothers him so much. It's not as if John flung himself off a building right in front of Sherlock. "Are you—You wouldn't be doing this on purpose, would you John?"

It clicks, suddenly, for John. He knew, of course he knew, he's Sherlock bloody Holmes and his damned brother was the British government. John doesn't know what to say, he's sure Sherlock is asking what he thinks he's asking but John can't reply to it. He can't say anything, he's just stood there in this darkened corridor with a random man unconscious in corner, and his mouth is just gaping open like some sort of fish. He feels the undeniable sense to run, to leave this conversation and this place, but he's Captain John Watson and he can't run from this even if he desperately wants to.

He runs his hands over his face and a tired, weary voice says, "Sherlock."

But, inexplicably he's saved as Scotland Yard rushes in. Flashlights glaring in his and Sherlocks eyes break them of their stand-off. Sherlocks in full consulting detective mode as he shouts out orders and complains about their tardiness. And John's just glad he can escape this conversation for a few more moments still.


	4. Chapter 4

As it turns out Captain John Watson can run from his problems. At least briefly, and John suspects that's only because Sherlock has allowed him to. He's avoiding Sherlock to the best of his abilities, which means almost not at all because he can't stand to be five feet away from the man.

They still sit in the same room and eat at the same table, but, there's a lapse of conversation. Sherlock is being too proud to apologize for accusing John of self-harm, either that or Sherlock really doesn't believe there's anything to be sorry about. Which John believes just might be the case if the haughty way he's flouncing about the flat has anything to do with it. And John, makes himself busy anytime he sees Sherlock facing his direction too long.

This goes on for longer than John cares to admit.

* * *

When Sherlock brings it up again its three days later at 7 o'clock in the morning.

They're sitting across from each other at the kitchen table. Sherlock, with his eyes glued to a spot just above John's right shoulder and his fingers once again thrumming anxiously against the table top. John, meanwhile is leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, trying to exude a sense of calm he does not feel.

Sherlock opens his mouth for a long moment but does not say anything. "I've realized, somewhat belatedly, that this can be a sensitive subject. However, this is something that cannot be tip toed around any longer, John."

"How long did you know?" John doesn't need him to specify more, they've been avoiding the topic so long it seems to be the only thing they can think about.

Sherlock's head snaps to the side and John barely manages to look away in time not to meet his eyes. He hesitates like he was debating whether or not to tell John, but went ahead anyway, "A few days before we met in the restaurant. I met with Mycroft and he debriefed me on what was going on during my absence."

John knew that he was basically the only one who didn't know Sherlock was alive and he suspected he wasn't Sherlocks' first stop when he came back to London; but that that didn't stop the sting that spread throughout him at the thought of not being a priority on Sherlock's list. Not to mention Sherlock had _known_ since that very first meeting and honestly, he should have known Mycroft was keeping an eye on him, the bloody man saw everything.

John doesn't say anything, just inclines his head to confirm his listening. So, Sherlock keeps talking, "He informed me of your situation and your expressed desired to end your life."

And there it was. That teensy little black mark on John's otherwise impeccable record. The topic John's being trying to skirt around for weeks. His horrifying, humiliating, and heartbreaking lapse judgement that'll probably scar him for the rest of his life. It seemed the best answer at the time, the easiest way to escape the pain and mundane routines that his life had become. He didn't just lose his best friend, he watched him swan dive off a building right in front of him. He figured if the great Sherlock Holmes could commit an atrocity such as that, what was stopping him.

Then, Sherlock says something so Sherlock that John can't help the bubble of laughter that escapes his chest.

"Suicide, John? Really, how dull."

Honestly, the nerve of the man. Pot and kettle. "That's really quite the hypocritical statement there, Sherlock." He's still just sat there, statuesque, save for the fingers that had now moved to clutch the edge of the table in a bruising grip.

"Except I didn't kill myself, John!" Sherlock barks accusingly. And John sees red.

"I thought you did, Sherlock!" John roared, slamming his hands on the table in front of him. "I thought I saw you die! I watched you jump off a building! I was on the phone with you when—" his voice broke and he had stop himself. He was on the verge of breaking down completely, his throat hurt from yelling and effort it took not to let a sob break through his sealed lips.

It was quiet, for a beat while John tried to compose himself and Sherlock absorbed facts hurled at him. "Tell me how." Sherlock finally says.

"What?"

"Tell me how you were going to do it. Tell me why you didn't." Suddenly John feels a weird sensation come over him. An intense, heavy feeling that he hasn't felt in a long while. It's the feeling of Sherlock staring at him. It's an impossible feeling to miss even if you were the most oblivious person in the entire world. The severity of his gaze is what John believes is one of the main reasons people find Sherlock off-putting. It penetrated through you, into your whole being and John supposes it's also why he's the world's only consulting detective.

"Don't you already know?" John asked, stalling.

"I want to hear it from you."

So, John tells him and as he does a very small, vindictive part of himself is glad to see Sherlock squirm. Sherlock can hear with his own two ears, from John's own mouth the agony he wrought. Though, he tamps down that feeling before it could grow too much.

John tells Sherlock how he went to therapy for a couple months after and how he moved all of his things out of the flat. He tells Sherlock how he found a tiny flat and how much that small space reminded him of the days before he ever met him. He tells him how his days had a set routine: visit Mrs. Hudson, go to work, eat lunch in his office, have a round with Lestrade, go home and go to sleep, then do the same thing again the next day. His only break in that routine was his three times a week therapy sessions or when the surgery was understaffed and they needed him to come in.

Eventually, he'd stop going to see Mrs. Hudson in the morning and stopped seeing Lestrade in the evenings. He cut his therapy sessions down to two and then one, claiming he was starting to feel better but really, he wasn't feeling at all. In the end, he just stopped going completely. He tells Sherlock how he didn't realize how tangled up his life had been in Sherlock's. How embedded Sherlock was in his being. He remembers his therapist referring to this a sort of symbolic loss and he remembers telling her it wasn't just symbolic if he was really gone.

Throughout this, John still cannot get his eyes to meet Sherlocks, even though he can feel them pining him down across the table. However, he does see the straining of his fingers, the hardness of his lips, and the furrow in his brow. He carries on, because this is what Sherlocks asked for and it's the least he can do.

"…I wasn't really living. Just going through the motions and I couldn't think of anything worse. After a few months of living like that; antisocial, alone, melancholy, I couldn't do it anymore. Not to mention the cane, that bloody cane," He's been trying, and probably failing, to keep his voice level. To not betray the torrent of emotions rolling through him; if the dam breaks he doesn't think he can get it close again.

"The end of my lease was coming up—perfect timing I thought. I moved everything out, gave it most of it to a shelter. And I…I booked a hotel, packed a few of my clothes and took a couple days off from work. I was going to do it in the morning, after I'd had my tea," his lips lift in a soft quirk, in hindsight that was a very John thing of him to do. "I had everything in order, the room cleaned to perfection, my things neatly packed away. A note on the bedside table and a silencer on my gun."

Sherlock can picture all of these things perfectly. John dressed to the nines, as most army men are when they plan to end their lives. Military corners on the bed, not a single crease in sight. And of course, John would put a silencer on the end of his gun, he's a proper man and doesn't want to bother anyone. Doesn't want to cause an inconvenience.

"And then?" he prompts.

"And then my phone went off." He huffs out a small laugh. "A reminder for Harry's birthday the next day."

"So, I'm just stood there, in the middle of the room, gun in my hand. Staring at my phone like it's personally offended me and all I could think was 'I can't kill myself on my sisters' birthday'. That wouldn't be fair to Harry, having to deal with all that. So, I put my gun away…" John's eyes are still staring at his hands on the table. He wonders what Sherlock thinks of all this. John is sure Sherlock could understand his reasons of attempting suicide, but not so sure if he'd understand his reasons for not going through with it. "I stayed with Harry for a few days after her birthday and thought about trying again. But, then it was someone from calling me to cover their shift, so I couldn't do it that day. Then a finale of a program I had been watching or a conference I had to go to. Just little things like that, things that pushed me to keep living another day."

"It wasn't great, but it was something. I started seeing a therapist again, a different one, at Harrys' insistence. So, I suppose I was managing. But I didn't really start living again until—" he cut himself off. This was a personal moment between him and Sherlock and it didn't feel right to bring her into this. But, Sherlock, being Sherlock pushed past the boundaries on comfort.

"Mary," He said her name in tone John couldn't quite place. John nodded, unwillingly to say more on the matter.

And, suddenly, he wants to be done, he really does. This is a too emotionally taxing conversation for this early in the morning. Plus, he has to go to work soon, he's already missed too many days running around London with Sherlock catching bad guys. So, John says this and the conversation is over, just like that, with not fight from Sherlock at all.

Sherlock does manages to pry his fingers from the table but ultimately stays in the same stop, staring at the place John had previously been sitting. They say their goodbyes and John walks out the door.

* * *

After work John goes to Mary's. He thinks owes her that, not to mention he doesn't think he can take seeing Sherlock tonight.

She's excited and John lets her hold on to him and talk him into submission. He was worried about the separation but he thinks he's exhausted enough to sleep to through the night with constantly worrying about Sherlocks whereabouts. He also thinks they could do with a bit of division, they've basically been living in each other's pockets since he'd been back. Besides, John's trying to work on not tying his entire sense of self into Sherlock's.

He falls asleep next to Mary next to him and tries not to think.

* * *

Hope you enjoyed! Please review, it means alot!


	5. Chapter 5

John should have known better. Of course, talking about it just the once wouldn't be enough for Sherlock. He'd pick and prod at him until he confirmed every theory his impossible mind thought of. He had woken up to several texts from Sherlock, ranging from 'What Hotel?' to 'Which shoes were you wearing?'. He doesn't text back because by now the messages are several hours old and he doesn't doubt that Sherlock has already figured out the answers to most, if not all, of them. He wished, futilely, that Sherlock would let it go. It was in the past and it should stay there, but, he wasn't naïve enough to believe that it would.

It seemed that this morning Mary had gotten over her infatuation of John's return and was now hounding him about where he had been, why had he ditched her at the café, and was this going to be a regular occurrence. And John felt bad about it sure; the way he always felt bad when he put Sherlock above his significant others. She wanted him to try harder to balance his life with Sherlock with his life with her. And John didn't want to have to try this hard. But, he loved Mary, he really did.

"Who are you trying to convince John? Me or yourself?"

"You need to figure out who means more to you. The man who faked his own death or the woman who has done nothing but love you."

"You were going to propose to me, John! Oh, yes, I knew. Are you still going to marry me John?"

She kicks him out after he fails to answer the last question. He can't picture himself just being a husband to this woman anymore. He can't picture coming home to her every night after a long day at the surgery. And he loves her, he wants to love her just like he used to, but he doesn't think he can anymore. Everything he's wanted for them has gone up in flames because of Sherlock and he has no idea how much that scares him.

* * *

That's how he ends up several hours later drowning his sorrows in a mug of pitch black coffee. He would have gone to a pub, but he remembers his therapist telling him alcohol and despair shouldn't go, no matter how they longed to be together. He couldn't go to Mary's because she was still waiting for an answer he couldn't give her yet. He couldn't go to Sherlock's because the man would still be asking about his suicide attempt.

But, in hindsight, it was stupid idea to think that he could run from Sherlock Holmes. When John gets up to refill his cup he turns back to find Sherlock sitting across from where he had previously been sat. He's taping mercilessly on his phone and doesn't look up when John reclaims his seat.

"How do you keep finding me?" John asks, warming his hands on his cup. It was an especially frigid day, even inside the restaurant he couldn't completely fight off the chill.

As he looks up, John looks away and he can tell instantly that Sherlock is looking directly at him. Trying to make the eye contact is so inexplicably afraid of. "GPS on your phone," he answers nonchalantly, pocketing his phone.

"What about when my phone's off?" He remembers very clearly Sherlock popping up wherever he was even when his phone had died or he had forgotten it somewhere.

"Homeless network."

John wonders if this is a new development in light of recent events or if this has been going on since before. Honestly, John wouldn't be at all surprised if Sherlock following him wasn't new; Sherlock had no concept of personal space or privacy.

There's several beats of silence before Sherlock says, "Would you still do it?"

John almost chokes on his coffee, "Excuse me?" He subtly looks around the café, luckily not many people are present besides Sherlock and himself.

"Kill yourself, John," Sherlock clarifies himself like John's an idiot. He's trying to sound like he's unaffected, but John doesn't miss the way his fingers are thrumming in a blur on the sides of the table. Joh tries to think back and recall if Sherlock had this nervous tick before, or was it a new addition, like so many things were in their rebudding relationship.

"Would you still do it?" he repeats. Sherlock leans forward across the table, his ever-tapping fingers sliding until they stop on either side of John's elbows, bracketing him in. He's bent halfway across the table, his face inches from John and it takes everything John has not to meet his eye.

John bows backward in his chair, trying to create some distance between himself and Sherlock. He doesn't get far when Sherlocks large hands suddenly lash out and grip John's elbows. "Answer me," he breaths and John can feel his warm breath ghost across his face.

"No," John says breathlessly. Because honestly with Sherlock this close to his face he's having trouble thinking clearly. And actually, he'd be a little pissed at being blatantly manipulated like this if he didn't have the sneaking suspicion that Sherlock needed this confirmation more than he let on.

He sits back in his chair, going back to his phone. This admission seemed to enough for Sherlock, for now anyway.

* * *

Its two days after the coffee shop when they have a case that just infuriates Sherlock. He's on edge the entire time and John can't seem to figure out why. Even when it's over and solved Sherlock is still walking around the flat in one big fit.

John's just about had enough of it and tells Sherlocks so. Which, of course, Sherlock doesn't take well. Soon enough they're hurling barbs at one another, hitting where it hurts. They're unleashing months of pent up anger, John at Sherlock's leaving and _still_ not having apologized for it and Sherlock at John for his supposed idiocy and suicide contemplation.

At that John had to take a moment then decides he has to get up and leave before he does something he'd regret. He's unhooked his coat and is halfway out the door before Sherlock's quiet voice stops him.

"Excuse me," John says turning around to face Sherlock.

John is sure it's taking every muscle in Sherlocks body to keep him from rolling his eyes as he repeats himself, "I said: I'm sorry." Sherlock walks towards John and plucks the jacket from his hands, effectively -in Sherlocks eyes- stopping him from leaving.

"Not for leaving—that was unavoidable, as you know. However," Sherlock hung John's coat back on the rack and proceeded to take a seat on the sofa, "I admit I…miscalculated the effect my absence would have on your psyche."

Well that was the understatement of the year. Was he still a bit mad over the whole situation—of course, but overall, he's forgiven Sherlock. He had explained before why he did what he did and although at the time John wasn't in the right frame of mind to hear it, he accepted in now.

Sherlock pats the cushion next him, inviting John to sit, "I suppose I should also apologize for bringing your aforementioned suicide attempt. I do not believe that's something you bring up in petty squabbles?"

John shook his head, claiming the seat next to Sherlock, "No that's not really something one does." He can feel Sherlocks gaze on him, but he's adamant to keep his head forward.

"I don't suppose you thought of this but, I daresay I felt your absence just as equally as you felt mine."

John froze. No, he hadn't, not really anyway. He thought all of Sherlocks clinginess came from guilt at Mycroft informing him of what he had been up to. He never once thought that while Sherlock was out God knows where dismantling Moriatys' network he was missing John.

Sherlock huffed and scooted until his head was resting on John's shoulder, their sides pressed together, "That's really quite insulting. Honestly what would I do without my blogger?"


	6. Chapter 6

"You said you wouldn't do again."

For a moment John doesn't know what he's on about. They're both sat in the living room, John in his chair typing up a case and Sherlock on the couch fiddling with something or other. It catches him off guard because he finally, _finally_ thought they had moved past this subject. But, leave it to Sherlock to never let something go; he probably had an entire wing dedicated to it in his mind palace.

"Yes, Sherlock, I did," John sighed. He said it and he meant it. He didn't feel like that anymore, John didn't want to kill himself. It was a stupid decision, he realized that. John Watson, in this present moment and for the foreseeable-and hopefully far off- future did not plan on taking his life.

"And you meant it," Sherlock presses, his experiment long forgotten. He was facing John again, full undivided attention on him and John feels extremely uncomfortable.

"Of course, I meant it."

"Are you certain?"

John narrows his eyes and closes his laptop. Sherlock was not going to do this to him, he didn't get to analyze whatever it was he was analyzing about John to think he'd attempt suicide again. John wasn't going to let him evaluate his every move as if John was a danger to himself. "What is this about Sherlock? If you think I'm prepared to do something like that again then—"

Sherlock cuts him off in one hissing snap, "What am I supposed to think John?"

John's about to start up again in one big huff, but Sherlock continues, "You won't look at me! I spend half the day trying to catch your eye. You avoid it like plague. At first, I figured it was due to you being angry with me, then that passed. Next, I believed it to do with you thinking you were keeping something from me, a lie of omission about your sui—deviances, but, that too passed."

And there go his fingers again, tapping in that unheard rhythm of unease against the floor. "Now, I have nothing to presume but you planning to end your life again, John! Everything is fine until the exact moment it isn't, so I need you to be truthful with me John when I ask you."

Everything's moving in slow motion, drowning out and becoming loud again. He really didn't think Sherlock would call him out on it, he thought he would let them live out the rest of their days in eye contact-less bliss. Sherlock's words are echoing in his ears and he can't. Not looking Sherlock in the eye is his last line of defense, against Sherlock and against himself. John can admit that Sherlock has far too much power over him and he's been trying (and probably failing) to not have Sherlock hold such a grip over his life. John was too dependent on him and that wasn't going to work out well for either of them.

Two things could happen if John looked at Sherlock, and he meant really looked at him. Eye contact, in John's mind, could either make or break them. One, Sherlock would look at him like the weak man John feared he was. Sherlock would look at him like he was a civilian and not the war doctor he thought he should be. He would see him as fragile and unkempt; a ticking time bomb of psychological disorder. He'd see the worst reflection of himself in Sherlock's eyes and he wasn't ready for that.

Or, he could look at Sherlock and see that something had changed. He could see a look in his eye that would ruin John. Once you know something you can't unknow it and if Sherlock knew John's most horrible secret he would look at him differently. He'd look at him like he looked at people on the street or individuals on case. With a certain look of disgust, disinterest, and disappointment, the look he gave when everyone else were measly, boring human beings who ultimately bored him. John doesn't think he could handle that look.

He especially doesn't know what he'd do if he saw both.

"It's not that," John says, "It's just…" He doesn't want Sherlock to worry, but he doesn't know if he can get himself to look at him.

And John's not sure about what it is that Sherlock just gets about him, but it suddenly clicks for him. "Oh." Sherlock's mouth forms the perfect little circle.

"You're worried I'll look at you different." He can hear Sherlock let out a great sigh. "I really don't know what goes on in that funny little brain of yours. I am not looking at you any differently, John. You're still my blogger and I'm still looking at you the way I've always been."

John wonders if that's worse. Sherlock looking at him like nothing's changed when _something_ certainly has.

"So, look at me John." John doesn't look at Sherlock, he can't.

At Johns, non-response Sherlock raises to is feet. He's walking towards John slowly, oh so very slowly, as not to startled him. But, honestly, he would have been preferred it if he was walking at his regular high- speed Sherlock pace.

He stops right at John's feet and kneels in front of him. John's still adamant about not looking Sherlock in the eyes even when he places a hand on each side of John's face forcing him in his direction.

John's looking up, down, right, left, anywhere but Sherlock, "This ridiculous, let go me, Sherlock. I have to—"

"Shut up!" Sherlock snaps. He hands tighten on John's face and he moves closer, forcing himself in-between John's legs. They're level and John was sure if he looked dead center he'd see the blue of Sherlock's eyes.

"Look at me!"

It takes a minute, an eternity, but he does. John gives in. He looks and he was right, immediately looking forward he was met with those all-seeing eyes. Sherlocks eyes were hard, trying to make John understand. John focuses on what's the same: that familiar blue, those long black eyelashes. It's what he remembers from the time before the fall. When he could look at Sherlock unabashed.

It's not worse, John supposes, Sherlock looking at him the same. It's an unimaginable relief, John lets out breath he didn't realize he was holding. Sherlock was here, looking at him like he didn't know John's greatest shame. Maybe he didn't care or maybe he'd gotten over it, whatever the case John was grateful. So, so grateful.

Sherlock eases the bruising grip on his face, "Do you see?"

And John can only nod, he does.

* * *

He never realized how much effort he put into avoiding Sherlock's gaze. How on guard and tense he was, trying to evade the one thing he needed the most. It was a comfort and ease to effortlessly meet his eye again.

John does, at one point, ask Sherlock if had been looking at him the entire time, because he had been sure he hadn't. To which Sherlock replies, 'Of course not. How could I? Knowing what I had caused'. And that it wasn't told John told him his story that he found the strength to. So, John leaves it at that. Silently pleased that Sherlock had had the same problem as him.

However, John was right, no eye contact was indeed his last defense against the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes. And now that wall had come tumbling down, he was completely and irrevocably attached to him again. Once again, Sherlock came before everything and everyone. The only saving grace was that it seemed Sherlock was depending on him just as much.

Thankfully, there are no more panic attacks at the prospect of he and Sherlock not being in the same room, but that doesn't mean they can just let each other be.

They're either sitting to close, which Mrs. Hudson loves. Standing too close, which Mycroft never fails to comment on. Or making unwavering eye contact, which makes Lestrade uncomfortable.

It's one of those instances where they're standing too close. They're in the kitchen, standing in the aftermath of Sherlocks failed experiment. There are what John believes to be human entrails in Sherlocks hair and some sort of fluid underneath John's boot.

John is being the saint of a friend that he is and is picking bits of gore from Sherlock's black curls. Sherlock, being wrongfully taller than John, is leant against the counter; legs bent, back hunched, and head lowered with his hands bracing himself on the countertop so John can get at his head.

They're already too close, so when Sherlock shifts and lifts his head they're staring right at each other, closer than before. They're looking at each other, saying nothing. John can feel Sherlocks warm breath ghosting against his face. Maybe a couple of inches apart and John couldn't say why he did it.

John moves forward, not even all that much, and suddenly he's kissing Sherlock. Mess forgotten the only thing John can focus on is Sherlock's mouth and how warm and soft it is. And Sherlock, he's kissing him back. His hands had come off the counter and are now fisting into the back of John's shirt. He's sloppy and unpracticed, but John doesn't care. He's kissing Sherlock and everything feels right. He's about to move forward, even closer, when it hits him.

He jerks back, out of Sherlock's grasp. "I'm sorry," he gasped out.

Sherlock is just standing there, having now pulled up to his full height, staring at John like he knows exactly what's going through is mind. His fingers are prodding his puckered lips and John needs to stop staring or he might be tempted to go back for more.

"I'm sorry," John says again. He's backed well out of Sherlock's reach, almost out of the kitchen. "I shouldn't've done that."

Sherlock doesn't say anything, so John keeps on babbling, "I—me. Mary and I—"

Truthfully, he hasn't seen Mary in almost a week, he hasn't been back since she kicked him out. He still hadn't had an answer for her. Even so, this was a betrayal. He never thought he'd be the man to cheat on his girlfriend, yet here he was. He loved her, he did and once he figured out how to balance her and Sherlock he'd… well, John wasn't exactly sure what he'd do.

Sherlock steps away from the counter, towards John, his fingers finally dropped from his mouth. He's looking at him somewhat sadly, like he knows something and John hopes this doesn't ruin their relationship. "John," Sherlock says firmly.

Before he can get anywhere else, John blurts out.

"I'm in love with her."

Sherlock's compassionate face turns into one of exasperation and irritation. He rolls his eyes, "No, you're in love with the idea of her. She saved you and now you think you have to love her forever because of it."

A beat. And John opens his mouth only to close it.

John wanted so very badly to disagree. He loved Mary, he did. She was there for him when everything went to hell. She made him want to start truly living again, she was one of the reasons John was still here today. For a while she was his whole world, it only seemed fair to repay the kindness.

As he thinks about this he realizes Sherlock is, at least partially, correct. While he did love Mary for her smile and who she was; a lot of it was him idolizing her for rescuing him. She was there when he felt he had no one and he supposed, somewhere in his mind, he thought that the only payment he could give her was his love. Even if it wasn't really there.

John doesn't know what to do. What is he supposed to do, he's spent all this time and effort loving her in a way he doesn't. It feels wrong to him, like she's been of use to him and now he doesn't need her anymore. He doesn't know if he can just discard her like that.

He looks at Sherlock and wonders if it's a matter of who he can't live without or who is the smart choice.

It always comes down to this, John supposes: the head or the heart.

* * *

And we're almost done. Only a chapter or two left. Thanks for reading! Please Review, it motivates me to right more.


	7. Chapter 7

The head or the heart.

Mary or Sherlock.

In the end, it wasn't much of a choice. It never really was, John supposes. The moment Sherlock came back into his life was the end of everything else. Although, the prospect of being with Sherlock was frightening. The man already possessed so much of John, he didn't know what would happen once Sherlock got ahold of that last piece.

They we're so ridiculously codependent that John was almost certain this advancement in their relationship couldn't be healthy. But, what could he do? The heart wants what the heart wants.

John had decided the day before that today would be the day he'd talk to Mary. He couldn't put it off any longer, he owed her that much. After he told Sherlock of his plans he gave John a look that screamed 'finally!' and all but pushed him out the door. The look made John wonder how long Sherlock had harbored his feelings for John. However, he pushed the thought aside; right now, was about him and Mary.

Which left him now, standing at her door, fist poised to knock. But, before he could, the door opened before him.

Mary stood there in all her glory, tight lipped and fingers squeezing the door frame just a tad too hard.

"John," she says, voice devoid of any emotion.

"Mary," he stands straighter, tries not to fidget. "May I come in?"

She looks like she's weighing her options and several seconds pass before she inclines her head and lets him pass.

And John thinks, by her hesitation, that she knows what he's come here to say. How could she not? John's been away for so long, leaving her without an even so much as a text message. He knew, she knew, now all he had to do was get the words out.

She motions for him to sit on couch across from her and he does. She looks at him politely, as if she's waiting for him to speak, but as soon as he opens his mouth the look turns sour. "So, you've made up your mind then?"

John heaves out a great sigh, "Mary," he starts, but she bulldozes over him, fueled by her anger.

"I was there for you John! I was always there for you."

And he knows, God does he know. She was there completely and always, when he slipped and fell, she'd picked him back up. When it all got too much, she was there with a shoulder to lean on. She was always there, John owed her everything.

"I know," John says running his hands down his face. "I know."

"Then why?" there was slight break to her voice. A small exposure that showed she wasn't as angry and untouchable as she liked to portray.

"Because I love him," John said simply.

* * *

She's upset, understandably, doesn't want to see him for a while—possibly ever. He can't help but feel that a small part of him is gone with their relationship and he vaguely wonders if this is the symbolic loss that his therapist was trying to tell him about.

He picks up a takeaway on his way back to 221B and he can admit that he's stalling. Taking his time because he really doesn't know where he and Sherlock stand at this moment. Sure, he left his girlfriend for the man and said man seemed all for that. But, he didn't think Sherlock had ever been in a relationship before, hell, the man barely even had a real friend before John came along. He'd never really seen Sherlock as the relationship type and he definitely didn't see him doing any relationship type things.

The only thing that he was certain of that he couldn't be apart from Sherlock again and he knew that Sherlock felt the same way about John.

He enters their flat and instead of a hello, Sherlock greets him with a "Is it done?" He says it so matter of factly, like John has just dropped off the mail and not just broken up with one of the most important people of his life. He sets the food in the kitchen and walks back into the living room.

"Yes, Sherlock."

And John guesses Sherlock can see the weariness on his face or hear the fatigue in his voice because he slowly rises from his chair and walks steadily over to John.

John closes his eyes as Sherlock brings his hands up around either side of John's face. But, Sherlock doesn't say anything just leans his forehead against John's as they breathe in tandem.

John breaks the silence first, "I choose you, Sherlock," it came out as a whisper. "I always have."

Sherlock's head presses harder into John's, "I know," he says at the same volume.

Sherlock had to know what this meant, had to know how important this was and there was no going back. He was John's and John was his, that was the way it was and the way it was going to be forever.

"You can't leave again," John thinks this might unfair to ask of him, what with their hectic life, but he can't help it. Down the road, when they can stand to be away from each other for more than a couple hours, he needs to know that Sherlock won't go.

"I won't, John." His voice his steady and strong, filled with a promise John knows he can trust.

Sherlock back's up, releasing his hold on John face and John opens his eyes again. Staring into the blue that he loved so much. Sherlock's mouth was set in a firm line and his brows were furrowed.

"I won't," he repeats resolutely. Like he needs John to understand.

John smiles, he understands, "Alright."

They stand there for a moment, just looking. It's one of those moments that would have made any bystander completely uncomfortable. And John can't believe that this is happening, but really, it's the next logically step. Maybe all those people assuming he and Sherlock where dating before were on to something. Maybe it just took a couple of life altering events for them to see it.

"John," Sherlock says, dragging John's attention back towards him, "John, I'm going to kiss you now."

John can't help the bubble of laughter that makes its way from his throat, "You don't have to announce yourself, Sher—"

Before John can finish his sentence Sherlocks' mouth is on his and John's laughter dies on his lips. Sherlock's moving hesitatingly and awkwardly, but his lips are just as soft as John remembers. He lets Sherlock lead for a while before placing both his hands on the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling him further down. Then John's kissing him slow and deep, running his tongue over Sherlocks bottom lip, making him gasp. Sherlocks hands find purchase on Johns waist as he steps closer, their bodies now completely flush against one another.

John pushes his tongue into Sherlock's mouth and tracing it over the back of Sherlocks teeth and when the man shutters into him, John pulls away. He doesn't want to go too fast, doesn't want to rush into things. He's not sure of what Sherlock has and hasn't done, John doesn't know Sherlock's limits.

Sherlock looks dazed when his opens his eyes, staring at John longingly. His lips are a bit kiss swollen and John thinks he could stand here and look at him forever. But he doesn't, he pulls Sherlock by the hand into the kitchen claiming they need to eat.

He isn't the least bit surprised when Sherlock actually does.

* * *

They don't say they that love each other, because word seems too small, too mundane for how they feel. What did you call someone who was your entire life? John didn't think there was a word for it, neither did Sherlock.

John's worries about giving Sherlock that last piece of himself was unfounded. As it turns out when you give someone your everything and they give you theirs in return, it feels like you aren't missing anything at all.

And although he still hurts about Mary, it's a dull ache that he hardly ever notices. And even then, he only mourns for the loss of previous friendship and everything he thought he still owed her. But, Sherlock more than makes up for every minute stab of pain with explosions of happiness. John doesn't think the reverse would be true if he had chosen differently.

Sherlock keeps his promise. He never goes anywhere without John and John suspects that he, himself, never goes anywhere without Sherlock. Whoever thought that the two of them couldn't get any more inseparable, were wrong. If they were close before, they might as well be conjoined now. All pretense of trying to stay away a respectable distance away for the benefit of others flew out the window the day of their second kiss.

Sherlock wants everyone to know that John is his and he is Johns'. Where John was never really a big fan of PDA before, he basically had no choice with Sherlock. Whether it was lap sitting in a cab or on the underground, hanging off John at restaurants, or even kissing him in the middle of conversation with Lestrade at crime scene. Sherlock had no restraints.

And John's reservations about Sherlock being 'boyfriend material' also turned out to be baseless. Although Sherlock wasn't great at expressing his more intimate emotions about John, he was becoming exceedingly good at showing them. Comforting John with his physical presence rather than with words, showing John when he wanted something romantic instead of asking him. Just little things that were so entirely Sherlock Holmes.

As for physically being together, Sherlock had no qualms and was in fact eager; which John will admit, mildly surprised him. The thought of Sherlock being with anyone that way was completely foreign to John. When John brings this up Sherlock shakes his head claiming he'd never had sex before, never even had a reason to try until now. And John thinks he's lucky, having something from Sherlock that will always be his and no one else's.

Which leads to now, both of them sated and sweaty underneath a sheet. Sherlock on his side pressed up against John and John on his back with his eyes closed.

"Look at me," Sherlock says, finally having caught his breath.

John does, he turns his head and looks at Sherlock. He always looks at Sherlock, he never stops looking at him.

"I want to tell you something," a look of frustration passes across his face and John can't help but think he looks adorable. "However, even with my vast vocabulary, I cannot seem to find the right word."

John knows exactly what he means, exactly what he's trying to say. There's no word, he knows, nothing to describe this feeling.

"I know," John said.

Sherlock looks at John with eyes he can't quite place and says the nearest word he could find. Then, it's out there, floating in the hairs breath that's between them.

"I love you, John"

It's the closest they could get, they're only synonym to their anonymous word that had no equal. It feels good, John thinks, to hear it out loud. He knew, of course he knew, but it's a whole other thing to hear the words from Sherlocks mouth.

"I love you, too, Sherlock."

John supposes they do say it.

* * *

That's all folks. Thanks for reading. 


	8. Chapter 8

On the other side of the building Ben lead his new classmates to their quarters

"This is the boys dormitory, you all can stay here," Ben said, unlocking a door. "Just until the end of the day. Then I should have your room ready, Uma."

Harry sauntered into the room, throwing his tattered bag on the bed. He had glared daggers and pulled at Ben the entire walk here. Harry like the rest of them held no love for the little beast king, but it was expedited by the fact that Uma had talked alone with him in the fish and chip; and of course the fact that Ben tried to take the hook. Uma was going to have a talk with him to ensure that he wouldn't do anything…impolite…to the King of Auradon.

"This _whole_ room, for just _two_ people," Uma shook her head, taking in the plentiful space. "You Auradonians really don't know how good you have it."

The room was easily larger than some of the classrooms at Serpent Prep. Hell, the entire school could probably fit inside this one dormitory building. It pissed Uma off, they had so much here while she and her people had so little.

"Yes," Ben said, smiling sadly. "It is a bit much, but we like to keep the students comfortable."

He remembered all too well the slums of the Isle. The cramped living spaces and lack of necessities wasn't something he'd soon forget. Coming back to Auradon made him feel ashamed, he and the royals of his court have been living in the lap of luxury, while the denizens of the Isle had been left to rot.

"Your royal arses wouldn't last a day on the Isle," Harry hissed, ripping a banner with the school logo off the wall.

 _No, we probably wouldn't_ , Ben thought.

Uma regarded Ben's tightly drawn face, wondering what he was thinking. Wondering if he regretted his choice to bring her here. "You aren't gonna ask?" she questioned.

Ben's faced warped into one of confusion.

She rolled her eyes. "About me. And Mal. And our unfortunate history." At this, Uma heard Harry cease his rampage around the room. She could feel the burn of his eyes on the back of her head and although she was standing nowhere him, swore there was breath tickling the her neck.

Surprisingly, Ben gave a small tilt of a smile. "That's none of my business."

Uma gave a huff of surprised laughter, "Oh? You don't think so?" She turned away from him to sit at table, then gave him a smile. "I'm sure you'll change your mind eventually. Goodbye, _King_ Ben."

"It's disgusting here," Harry spat as soon as they were alone. The beast king was too comfortable around them. Thinking he has a right to talk to and look at Uma. Acting like he doesn't care about Uma and the traitor's past. And Uma smiling at him like she smiles at Harry, speaking to him as if he deserves any of her attention. Harry knocked over a lamp in his anger.

Gil walked from corner to corner, checking out the room, "I don't know. I kinda like it."

"Plus, back home I had to share a room with like," he paused to count his fingers, "fifteen people."

Uma huffed, "That's because your dad is a ho, Gil."

Gil shrugged. It was more than common knowledge that his father had a slew of thick-headed bastards running around the isle.

Uma turned, and leaned her head against her hand. On their way to the school grounds they didn't pass much but a dense forest. Then on the way to the dormitory they passed a courtyard with a statue of the former king. The original beast who trapped them on that festering island. Uma committed every inch of landscape to her memory. It was best to know your way around in enemy territory.

Snapping Uma out of her thoughts Harry made frustrating noise from the back of his throat. "What are we doin' 'ere, Uma?"

He was standing at the opposite side of the table with his hand and hook splayed out on the surface. His ice blue a tad too wide and he had a tick in his jaw that belayed a certain anxiety, Uma wanted to take her hands and smooth out that crease, run her fingers down his face and close his eyes.

She looked away from him, "We're here, Harry, to take back what is rightfully ours. We're here to get our revenge on Auradon for all they've wronged us.

"We're here to show Mal that she doesn't run _anything_ anymore." Uma gave a nasty smirk, "We'll have the entire mainland under our thumb by the time we're done with it. We'll make it our home"

"Oh— _Uma_!" Harry moaned, walking around the table until his tall frame was hovering over her, " _That's_ what I'm talkin' about. Pillagin' and plunderin'."

"Ravaging the land," Gil piped from his spot on the bed. Harry gave a loud yes in agreement and slammed his hand on the table.

"Now, now, boys," Uma chided smoothly. She placed both her hands on either side of Harry's face claiming his attention. His cobalt eyes stilled the moment their skin met. "This isn't the Isle, we have to play it smart here. Their politics are different than ours."

Harry frowned, "Rubbish."

"Yes," she stressed, pressing her palms into Harry's cheeks painfully. "We have to be slow and careful. King Ben may be a kind-hearted fool, but I don't believe he wouldn't send us away the moment we began to pose a threat to his precious royals.

"So Harry, that means I need you to keep it together." When he looked as if he was about to object, Uma dug her nails into his flesh, careful not to press too hard. "That's an order."

"Yes, Captain," Harry whispered, his breath ghosting her face, then pouted. "You never let me have any fun."

Uma rolled her eyes and released him with a shove to his sternum. "Now, I'm not saying you can't be wicked," she smirked when Harry found his footing then flashed his teeth at her. "Just low profile."

She walked towards the door and beckoned with her hand; Gil and Harry filed after her.

"Let's go see what Auradon Prep has to offer."


End file.
